


Nothing Sane Happens After Midnight

by Only_1_Truth



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Fluff and Crack, Gen, Just Add Kittens, Kittens, Late Night Conversations, Late night travels to other coworker's flats, late night shenanigans that neither Bond nor Q are prepared for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7223731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing Bond expected at two o'clock in the morning was a call from Q that included, "One of those stray cats I was leaving food out for <strong>got into my house and had kittens in my workshop!”</strong></p><p>The story of an S.O.S. call that includes kittens, Quartermasters, and the unexpected results of spies using their skills benevolently for the greater good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Sane Happens After Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MinMu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinMu/gifts).



> So it all started with kitten pictures on Facebook, and then [xphile98187](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xphil98197/pseuds/xphil98197) and I started talking about all sorts of cracky kitten situations... The final nudge that made this become a story was hearing that my Second, [MinMu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MinMu/pseuds/MinMu) was in need of some gen-fic fluff! So, since my [Three's Company series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/337555) is done... *throws sparkles upon the following ficlet*

It was about 2:00 AM and it was pretty sad that James was only just getting to bed, but in his defense, he’d fallen dead asleep on the flight home, and jet lag was something that he’d never become immune to.

He was just stripping down to collapse into bed when his mobile rang – the one that only rang when someone from work wanted him.  Only MI6 knew the number.  Dragging a groan right up out of the depths of hell so that he could audibly express how very unenthused he was, James nonetheless stepped over to the bedside table and scooped up his mobile, frowning as the screen flashed with a number he didn’t recognize.  “Yes?” he grated out with something between vexation and curiosity.

The voice was immediately familiar as Q chattered frantically down the line, “Bond, I need you to come to my flat.  Right now.”

The panic in Q’s voice had James immediately straightening, his mind switching over instinctively from ‘Bond’ to ‘007.’  Of course, if Q was calling him from what was probably his personal phone, then it was unlikely that this was strictly MI6 business – which meant that James was hearing ‘There’s-an-intruder-in-my-house’ panic _or_ ‘I-topped-off-my-coffee-with-an-energy-drink-and-am-now-hearing-colors’ panic.  Either was entirely possible with the Quartermaster of MI6, whom James had gotten to know pretty well in the past few months.

Just in case this was the former kind of panic, James put the mobile on speakerphone and began dressing swiftly again – which included reaching for his gun-harness.  “Are you home now?” James demanded, keeping his voice level to counteract the anxiety in Q’s, “What’s going on?  Are you all right?”

Instead of some explanation on why he was calling a 00-agent instead of the police in the middle of the night, or some wildly caffeinated ramblings about synesthetic experiences, Q immediately blurted like the world was ending, “No, I’m not all right!  One of those stray cats I was leaving food out for **got into my house and had kittens in my workshop**!”

Bond froze, standing on one leg and in the process of stepping into his trousers.  He just stared at the phone for what felt like years before Q got worried and started talking again, “Bond?  James, are you still there?”  Bond didn’t even get a chance to do more than inhale and open his mouth to reply in the affirmative before Q went on in something that was dangerously close to a wail, “I have suddenly become a feline grandparent and I’m not ready!”

“Q!” Bond barked, wanting to ground Q a little before he flew right off the tracks – if he hadn’t already.  If nothing else, the boffin quieted long enough that the agent was able to get a word in edgewise _and_ get his trousers all the way on, “When was the last time you slept?”

There was a slightly rebellious pause, and then a sheepish mumble, “About forty-eight hours ago.”

‘ _Oh hell_ …’  James paused long enough to collect his words and hazard slowly, “Is is possible that you’re _imagining_ the cats?”

“No!” Q exploded back at him, angry now on top of everything else, “Look, I might be sleep deprived, but it’s not like last time!   _Last_ time I was awake for-!”

“Okay, okay,” James interrupted, switching to a more soothing and less skeptical tone before pulling a shirt on – a new one, as his last one smelled like eight hours on a plane and a full day chasing down gun-smugglers before that.  “Give me your address.”  After a second of thinking, he added with more wariness than he usually showed to live weapons – because at least he knew a thing or two about live weapons, whereas he hadn’t dealt with kittens since his own childhood, “Do you need me to bring anything?”

“Are there any places that sell litter boxes this late?”

Bond groaned and buried his head in his hands.  “We’ll see what we can do,” he finally answered.

~^~

Q met Bond at the door before the agent could touch the handle, a good indication that the boffin had been impatiently awaiting him – in fact, Q nearly hit James with the door as he pushed it open and popped his fluffy-haired head out.  It was safe to say that James had never seen Q’s appearance so wild, even when Q-branch and Medical had temporarily teamed up to discuss chemical warfare and created an airborne amphetamine that had accidentally made the Quartermaster wired for three days.  It hadn’t been addictive, thankfully, nor had it been relevant enough to use on missions.

“I’ve been googling,” were the first words out of Q’s mouth as he stared at James fixedly.

‘ _Shit_.’  James realized that he was going to do a lot of internal swearing before tomorrow came.  He shifted the bags of supplies that he’d managed to collect despite the late hour, also realizing that he’d just used more espionage skills to find a catbox than he’d probably used on his last mission.

“I’ve learned about proper care of a cat that has recently given birth, and that taking care of the mother is paramount so that she can in turn take care of her kittens – there are five, by the way – and that wet food of high quality is preferable – I texted you a list, but I think you were driving because you never answered.”  Q hadn’t even stopped to breathe or leave the doorway that he was unconsciously blocking, but now cocked his head and frowned a little as he asked in the same rapid speech, “That food would be more expensive.  I trust I haven’t pillaged your wallet?”

“My bank account can stand a few unexpected acquisitions,” James replied, much more sedately than Q was talking.  He extended a hand to give Q a bag, less because it was tiring his arms and more because he thought Q needed something to keep him from buzzing off like an electrocuted hummingbird.  “Here.  Cat food.  I did get your text. I also put in that flea-stuff you wanted, since you said the mother cat’s a stray.”

Q fumbled but managed to grab the bag’s handle, staring at it for a moment as if he couldn’t honestly believe that Bond had done what he’d said.  A glance up showed another, more cumbersome bag in Bond’s other hand, presumably containing all things related to litter boxes.  “I’m assuming that you don’t have a cat, if you need all this,” James noted when Q finally got his brain in gear enough to let Bond in the door.  They entered the little foyer and Q used his key to access the rest of the building.  Q’s flat was on the ground floor, but towards the back of the complex.  “I also assume that this means you’re keeping the lot of them.”

“Well, I can hardly throw her out, not with a new family all around her,” Q defended, and James held up a hand to show that he had no interest in arguing.  It was far too late at night to find a proper vet or trained caretaker anyway, and it was mildly insane that Bond was active and helpful at this time either.  Q was still dressed for work minus his shoes, meaning he’d probably only just disentangled himself from Q-branch to come home to this little surprise.

Q started babbling again before they even reached his door, “My research told me that the anti-flea medication really isn’t safe to use on newborn kittens, but putting it on the mother will work, although she’s rather clean for a stray.  She’s also the friendliest of all the homeless cats I feed-”

“You make a hobby of this?” Bond had to ask, not sure if he was judging or not.  Considering the unorthodox consequences, he felt he had room to judge at least a little bit.

“Yes,” Q replied succinctly, in a tone that dared 007 to argue, which he wisely didn’t.  That seemed to thaw Q’s tone enough that he went on less defensively, “I didn’t mean to, I just…  I had leftovers all the time, and there was a cat… or three… that I always saw out in the alleyway, and they just looked so _needy_!”  Q made a helpless gesture with his free hand before unlocking his door using not only his keys but a keypad that even 007 could tell was high-tech.  Q’s flat was in a pretty safe neighborhood, but clearly some of his coworkers’ paranoid habits had worn off on him – not a bad thing, for someone who lived on ground level abutting an alley.  Inside, Q’s flat was roomier than James had expected, with the main space split between a modest kitchen and living room, and multiple doors leading off into more shadowed spaces.  Q was already angling towards on closed door, and he cast a cornered look over his shoulder at James as if to make sure that he was following, like back-up.  “I still don’t know how she got into my flat.”

“We’ll do a sweep and find out,” James answered like it was second-nature, which it pretty much was.  Usually, when he did a ‘sweep’ it was for human intruders, but he figured that he could use his skills to look for cat-sized openings in his Quartermaster’s defenses, too.  Right now, however, despite the insane hour, he was starting to get caught up in the moment, and was eager to meet Q’s new ‘roommates.’

“The door to my workshop was open, of course, but I closed it after I left because I didn’t want her wandering around – or, God-forbid, moving her kittens around and hiding them somewhere,” Q went back into his rapid-fire explanations.  Bond was starting to get used to the speed, but also realized that he could probably tune out most of it and still get the important bits, because Q seemed to be using words to hold off the shock of having his work-space turned into a feline delivery room.  Q pushed open the door very slowly but soon slipped in, still speaking, “I just came in to check on something before I went to bed, and suddenly I hear _mewling_!  So I come in to find that she’s taken up residence in a box that I had been using as… I can’t actually remember what that box was for, but it had stuff in it, I’m sure.  And my pullover-!”  Q threw his hands up in the air, forgetting that he still had a plastic bag full of cat-supplies and almost beaning himself in the head with it.  James was glad that he’d left his own bag by the front door, as it freed up both of his hands to reach out and save Q from cranial impact.

It sounded like the shirt business was severe indeed, so Bond listened with one ear even as his eyes took in the room: it was like a mini-Q-branch, with a few tables lining the walls, and shelving, and every inch of available space crammed with either computers and electronics or gears and scraps of metal for more mechanical work.  In short, it looked like the nest of some mad, steampunk bird, but it also apparently had the seclusion that a pregnant cat wanted, because Bond could hear quiet mews as well, and quickly zeroed in on a box in the furthest corner of the room.  It was almost invisible, wedged between a gadget-strewn table and a cabinet.

And in that box was an orange-colored tabby with just her head visible, and what looked like a shirt-sleeve spilling out of her make-shift bed.

When Bond walked past Q of his own accord, Q slumped and basically summed up his long lament, “I remember tossing that pullover over there because it was too hot, and now she’s had kittens on it.  Do those bodily fluids even wash out?”

Technically, there was a poignant joke in there about 00-agents being the masters of getting bodily fluids about of clothing, and 007 being the king of this, but he decided not to go there.  Q had hideous pullovers anyway, so James considered this a fitting and rather valiant death for it.  He stopped when he could just see into the box from about two meters distant: the mother cat just gazed up at him serenely, and kittens of many colors and patterns wriggled and fought for nipples against her side.

“Well, Q, you’ve got quite a starter set if you ever decide to become a crazy-cat lady,” 007 observed, a smirk curling up the sides of his mouth cheekily.

Q huffed, unamused.  “I had thoughts about getting a pet, but six cats wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Don’t like cats?” Bond had to ask.  He spotted, amongst the furry pile, at least one more orange-furred little mite, a calico, a little black-and-white one, and two grey lumps that were so close together that they looked like one extra-fat kitten.  Bond was charmed despite himself by the whole scene.

“I was thinking more along the lines of having _one_ cat,” Q corrected him tiredly, and James looked back to see Q pulling at his hair and looking like he was on his last strands of sanity for tonight.  “Maybe.”  Suddenly Q’s tenuous control on his calm broke and he let go of his hair to stick his arms out in the air and exclaim, “Bond, I’m not cut out for being a cat-parent!  I can’t even remember to feed myself!”

“Easy, Q,” Bond advised, turning from the cats when the orange-coated mother laid her ears back, no doubt startled by the sudden increased in volume.  Knowing enough to say that newly-birthed kits and their mothers liked quiet, James gripped Q by his upper arms and ushered him out of the room, closing the door behind them.  “Deep breaths, Q.  Out of all the pets that you could get-”

“Accidentally acquire,” Q groused, looking away to the left and folding his arms.  He looked miserable.  He also looked hilarious with his hair an erratic mess from sticking his fingers into it so often, and 007 had to fight the urge to smirk.

Undeterred, Bond finished lightly, “-Cats are far from the hardest to take care of.”  Judging Q’s reaction but wanting to test one thing, James pretended nonchalance and asked, “Unless you want to turn the lot of them into the shelter in the morning?”

Q immediately lost his evasive scowling and stared at Bond as if the man had offered to cook the entire feline family for breakfast.  “No!”

“Good,” Bond immediately replied cheerily, “because that would have been quite a waste of cat food _and_ my time spent getting it.  Now, what did your research tell you?”  Truth be told, 007 didn’t have the faintest idea what to do now, besides the vaguest memories of having a cat at Skyfall at one point.  Memories that old were barely legible to his recollection, so he hoped that Q’s manic ‘googling’ had paid dividends.

Pursing his lips, Q settled a little bit as his eyes flicked back and forth.  It was a habit of the Quartermaster's that always made James think that he was reading lines of data across the screen of his mind (or his glasses, for all 007 knew), and it never got old to watch for some reason.  “Mother cats – which are called ‘queens’ by the way – like quiet, warm, dark places to keep their kittens, and it was recommended to keep them in a container with sides high enough to that kittens won’t fall out.”  Q looked slightly scandalized at the thought of kittens falling anywhere, but went on, picking up speed like before and actually starting to pace, “Putting down multiple layers of washable cloths like towels or fleece blankets are recommended for lining just such a nest, so that the soiled layer can be removed as needed to leave the clean layer beneath.  We’ll have to move her.”

James had settled so that he was sitting on the arm of Q’s living room sofa.  He cocked an eyebrow but stayed comfortably put as he asked, “Why?”

Still padding back and forth with his socks sliding across the hardwood floor, Q replied easily, “Because my workshop might be secluded, but it’s not usually quiet – and it’s dangerous besides.”

“A health hazard?” James slipped the question in innocently.

“Yes-  Hey!”  Rounding on him, Q threw his grinning agent a glare, but then gave up with an upward roll of his eyes.  “A health hazard to cats and their kittens, certainly,” he clarified, pointedly excluding himself, at which 007 chuckled.  “The guest bedroom is better.  I think she might actually like it if I set her up in the closet… I know that I have more cardboard boxes…”  Q wandered quickly off to begin rummaging through a closet, and fortunately Q’s sense of cleanliness was better in every other room but his miniature workshop, because he found what he was looking for before long, while 007 found the guestroom with the minimal amount of wandering.

While Q made a sound of triumph and began moving on to finding serviceable towels to line said box, James leaned against the guest bedroom doorway and reflexively began that sweep he’d promised.  He was already narrowing his eyes at a window in the kitchen that was catching his attention when he asked absently, “Q, do you think that she’ll let you move her _at all_?  I’m not pretending to have much experience in the matter of mother cats-”

“Queens,” Q corrected, because of course he’d insist upon correctness.

Giving his eyes quick roll, Bond acquiesced, “Queens – but won’t she be damn protective?  She’s a stray.”

“Yes,” Q admitted, but his voice was contemplative, “but not feral.  Actually, she’s the tamest one that I’ve met, of the ones I feed.”  Q backed out of another closet with an armload of older-looking towels, hopefully leaving the better ones for his own use.  When Bond gave him a patently unconvinced look, Q shrugged and dumped the towels into the box, tipping his chin towards the work-shop door, “Go ahead and see.  She’s never hissed at me, and I already touched one of the kittens.  The orange one, I think.”

Startled to hear that Q had gotten that close with no evidence of excessive mauling (Bond did a subtle scan of Q’s hands and face to concur that, no, Q had no scratches), Bond just froze where he was for a moment before considering the closed door warily.  With Q setting up his towels and cardboard box according to whatever prescribed parameters he’d found, however, that left James and loose ends, and everyone knew that 00-agents hated being left idle.  Steeling himself, James pushed away from the doorway with a roll of muscles and made his way to the other room.

It was with wary steps that James entered what had become the domain of Q’s surprise (and multiplying) visitor, immediately locking eyes with the mother cat (Q could call her a ‘queen’ – James was old-school and preferred more plebian terms) as she sat up slightly in her nest.  She didn’t get excited in the slightest as James approached, so he dared to lower his weight onto his heels, getting a better look at sea-foam green, slit-pupiled eyes.  Her fur was a bit tatty and matted, looking rough in comparison to her kittens' sleek, silky fuzz, but it was obviously a pelt of striped red-gold – it would have looked a lot like fire if she were cleaner.  The kittens had sounded like little birds chirping with their high voices, but were quiet now, suckling.

Recalling that 003 had a dog that was best approached if a person held his or her hand out first for an introductory sniff, James extended his fingers until the she-cat could stretch her neck out, pink nose bumping scarred fingers.  “Q wasn’t kidding about you being tame,” 007 mused aloud, even as he noted absolutely no signs of previous care.  She at least wasn’t emaciated – Q’s feedings, no matter how sporadic they no doubt were, must have been keeping the outdoor cats fed.  She was otherwise quite unkempt. James slipped a finger under her jaw and rubbed the soft fur of her throat that he found here, and couldn’t help the upward quirk of his lips when she purred.  “Sweetheart, you’re too pretty to be living in the streets,” he rumbled before he considered that he was conversing with a cat.

Bond hadn’t realized there was anyone in the room but him, but a moment later Q cleared his throat from the doorway.  “I… uh…  The cat-bed is ready.  We just have to complete the transfer now, and then hope that the queen and her kits enjoy the guest bedroom as much as my messy workshop.”

Still squatting and smiling at the cat – who was also still purring, even as she eased back tiredly – Bond decided that he was in for a pence, in for a pound with this cat business.  So without shame, he said smoothly, “I think that Queen will enjoy a place that doesn’t have metal shavings for carpeting.”

“Que-?” Q stuttered, but by then James had turned around and was beckoning for the towel-lined box.  Since 007 was not required to help, the Quartermaster immediately snatched up the opportunity and scurried forward.  James, assured in the knowledge that Q couldn’t gossip about him naming a stray cat without also admitting to this entire fiasco (including his wailing on the phone about becoming ‘a feline grandparent’), shuffled aside to let Q and his box settle down next to him.

Q was much more self-assured in his handling of ‘Queen’ and her brood, and the cats were really his problem, so James just watched in case of trouble.  With the new box in between them, Q reached out swiftly but with hands as steady as a surgeon’s.  “I’m just going to take your babies,” the bespectacled young man murmured absently under his breath, reassuring James that he wasn’t the only one who was out-of-character in ways that would get them laughed out of MI6.

In a form of verbal fidgeting, Q kept muttering things meant to theoretically reassure the cat while he slid his fingers under fragile kitten bodies.  They started squeaking pathetically as soon as they were detached from their source of food and warmth, of course, and this troubled Q so obviously that James very nearly reached out to comfort him.  Instead, James did something slightly more constructive, rubbing his rough hand over Queen’s head and keeping her attention on his callused palm until Q had the last kitten – at which point the mother cat abruptly ignored Bond, stood up, and followed her last kitten until she was leaning out of her box and into the newer, larger one.  She must have found it satisfactory, because after only a brief moment to gauge her landing, she hopped right in.

“God, that was way more stressful than it should have been,” Q exhaled when he’d finally deposited the last flailing bundle in alongside the rest.  He sagged and rocked back off his knees to sit hard on his arse, running another hand back through his hair and causing it to sit up on his forehead like artful chaos.  “Who knew kittens could be stressful?!”

Bond was failing in his attempts not to laugh by this point.  He’d always known that Q had a dry sense of humor, but only now was he realizing that the professional, stiff-backed boffin was actually hilarious in non-work-related circumstances.  To keep himself from staring at Q’s baffled and shell-shocked expression, Bond stuck his hand out towards Queen again and rubbed a fingertip between her ears until her eyes closed.

Besides being amusing outside of work, Q was also shrewd.  His eyes had narrowed and grown thoughtful as he watched James petting the flat’s new occupant.  “I also never knew that the great 007 was a cat-person,” he eventually deduced, one eyebrow rising slowly in fledgling disbelief.

“I actually prefer a nice woman myself,” 007 joked as easily as breathing, but continued to run his hand down Queen’s flank.  He felt some mats, but only the faintest hint of ribs.  He also heard Q’s grudging amusement and derision as the younger man snorted at where Bond had unexpectedly taken this topic.

“Fine then.  Say whatever you wish on the matter,” Q finally just let it go with a dramatic sigh, “I just hope that I turn out to be a cat-person, because my hypothetical plans to own a cat have become a reality.  In plural.”  Briefly, Q looked overwhelmed again, and this time James took pity instead of making fun.

“You clear the way – I’ll carry your new furry flatmates.”  Even as Q sputtered and argued that 007 didn’t have to do the heavy lifting, Bond stood and bent down the carefully scoop up the box, the new mother within barely bothering to open her eyes.  The agent continued to bear his burden patiently and carefully as his Quartermaster belatedly scrambled to his feet and nearly tripped on his way out the door and into the central living room.  It was more amusing and endearing a sight than it should have been.

It was an insight into Q’s mind that all of his house except his workshop was very cleanly – Bond didn’t know what that insight meant, but it kept his mind engaged, his thoughts alert and intrigued.  The guest-bedroom looked little used, and with the closet door propped open, Bond could immediately see a nice little cave for a new, shy family.

The newly-dubbed ‘Queen,’ of course, didn’t seem particularly shy, and opened her eyes and coiled her body up just enough to look at the closet herself.  She made a thrumming noise in her throat that was half meow, half purr.

“Is that a positive endorsement?” Q asked warily, leaning close to 007’s shoulder to watch the orange cat.

Bond answered honestly, “It was completely indecipherable.”

“You speak multiple languages fluently,” Q said in an almost-accusing tone as his head swiveled to fix Bond with a narrow-eyed look.

Bond met the look with one eyebrow raised, “And you’re supposed to be a genius.”

“Touché.”  Sighing, Q pushed his glasses up further on his nose before saying, “Let’s just put them all down in there.  I’ll leave Queen with free reign of the room – not a word, 007, about my use of ‘queen’ and ‘reign’ in the same sentence – and I think I can find a few bowls to fill with food and water…”

While Q began a long-winded one-person argument with himself about whether he should worry about de-flea-ing Queen now or later, Bond squatted down, grunting as he shifted his precious cargo with precise care.  The agent smirked, reflecting on how rarely he put his muscles to use for such benevolent reasons – he was either using them for fighting or for fucking, mostly, and on his days off he worked out to make them stronger.  Now, he was at his Quartermaster’s flat in the middle of the night transporting felines.  It was safe to say that he hadn’t foreseen his night going like this.

He was glad that it had, though, because there was something heartwarming about seeing Q immediately shuffle forward when Bond straightened and backed off.  The box was all settled and its occupants appeared as happy as they’d been while still airborne in an assassin’s arms, but the Quartermaster still knelt over them and fretted visibly.  The stray Queen couldn’t care less, and even could be heard purring while Q gently touched her babies and poked fussily at the blankets.  Bond realized belatedly that he himself was just standing and smiling goofily at his uptight coworker muttering at kittens.  Shaking himself and glancing around as if someone were around to see him (and knowing Q’s penchant for surveillance, it was possible that all of this was recorded somewhere), 007 stepped forward and, after a moment’s hesitation, reached down to catch Q’s upper arms in his grip again.  “Come on, Q.  One mother in the room is enough – unless you want to help lick them clean?”

Q had twitched as he felt strong hands close around his upper arms, but now he swiveled his head around to give Bond exactly the kind of glare that he’d expected.  However, he allowed Bond to use a bit of that strength to lift him to his feet.  With his slender bones, pulling Q up felt like handling a bird, although James found that Q was more leanly muscled than he’d always speculated.  They’d worked together for months now, but this was already the most personal contact they’d ever had, and clearly the resident prodigy of MI6 was just _full_ of surprises.

It took another half hour before the guest bedroom was set up to accommodate feline occupants.  The process would have gone more smoothly had Q not lost his can-opener, an item that he expected Bond’s espionage skills would help him to find.  It was perhaps proof of how tired both Bond and Q were getting (respective jet-lag and insomnia notwithstanding) that it devolved into a squabble until James did stumble upon the can-opener.  The agent seemed as surprised as Q, and soon they were both focusing on cans of cat-food, mollified.

Now they both closed the guest bedroom door and made it just far enough to collapse on Q’s sofa.  “I think we did that all correctly,” Q said after a moment, although it sounded more like a question.  He moved his shoulders in what felt vaguely like a shrug where his left arm abutted James’s right.

Bond shrugged back, thinking about how close they were sitting for just being coworkers but ultimately dismissing the topic as unimportant.  Besides, they had to be more than coworkers after Q had called him in the middle of the night, invited him over, and proceeded to educate them both on the finer topics of cat-care.  “Considering all of my cat-related knowledge is a number of decades old, and most of yours seems to be all of one hour old-”  Q elbowed him, but Bond merely grunted and kept talking, eyes fluttering closed as the late hour caught up with him.  “-I think we should count anything as a success.”  This time when Bond felt Q’s body shift for another well-placed elbow, the 00-agent reached across and snagged the offending limb, and only opened his eyes afterwards.  Q wasn’t even glaring, but had rocked his head so that green, exhaustion-shadowed eyes could fix on Bond’s face in an unrepentant sort of way.  Bond merely smirked the tiniest bit and added, “I was expecting at least one emergency room visit to be necessary.  Or a psych-eval.”

“For us or the cats?”

Q asked his question so artlessly, his eyes large and guileless, and after a delayed moment that meant his lack of sleep was catching up with him, 007 started laughing.  A choked cough of humor soon became full-bellied chortles, and Bond let go of Q’s arm only because he couldn’t laugh this hard and hold onto anything at the same time.  He heard Q trying to defend himself for a moment, before he accepted his words as the butt of the joke and hushed.  Of course, a sulky Quartermaster was an even more irresistible source of amusement, and after one glance at Q’s pouting expression, James went right back to laughing.  This time, Q joined him, with a sort of mania that made perfect sense after the events of the past hour.

“B-Bond-” Q gasped out his name helplessly between laughter, pawing at the agent’s bicep, “Bond, we have to-!  We have to stop laughing!  The cats-  We’ll be keeping them up.”

That was a rare and ridiculous request all on its own, but Bond was nearly out of breath and energy anyway, so he made an effort to rein his laughter in as Q did the same.  Soon they were both sitting on an even keel again, aching from tiredness and enough laughter to count as an entire cardiac work-out, and with that happy ache in his body, James finally said congenially, “Well, it was fun, Q.  But I should probably get going – at least one of us has work tomorrow.”

“I think I’m going to take tomorrow off,” Q said hesitantly, which garnered a sincerely shocked look from Bond.  “What?” Q shot back, cheeks pinking in embarrassment even as he looked away shiftily, “Who in good conscience could just leave a new family like that unattended for the long hours that I work?  I can’t.”

“I’m not judging you, Quartermaster,” James immediately raised both hands disarmingly.  Of course, then he dropped his hands and leaned over his knees, eyeing Q with amused shrewdness and amending, “Actually, I’m judging you a little bit.  I heard that you broke your arm on the job and still wouldn’t take the day off, but six balls of fluff can get you to use your vacation days.”

“They’re very _cute_ balls of fluff,” Q raised a finger as if this was important.

It was.  But probably only because they were both sleep deprived.  “Noted.”  James, still smirking, started to stand and head towards the door with a murmured, “See you, Q,” when he was startled by the sound of socked feet swiftly thumping after him.  Training died hard, and 007 tensed and started to turn around just as Q skidded on the hardwood floor and all but rammed into his side – but the immediate grip that Q wrapped around Bond’s right arm seemed less for balance and more to keep him from walking away.

“Bond, wait-!  I can’t just kick you out – it’s past three in the morning!” Q protested.  He seemed to belatedly realize that he’d wrapped himself around Bond’s arm like an octopus, and flushed again, backing off but keeping one hand braceleted around Bond’s tanned wrist while the agent waited with curious patience for him to go on.  After a quick, almost shy downward glance, the younger man let even his wrist go, but went on more professionally, “The least I can do in return for you help is let you kip on the sofa – or in the bedroom, if you like.  I’ve slept on the sofa often enough, so it wouldn’t be any hardship on my part.”

Q’s eyes were so hopeful and sincere…  That, combined with the fact that James didn’t really relish a drive home, made up his mind more quickly than it would have otherwise.  He shifted a foot so that he was no longer broadside to the door but instead facing the interior of Q’s flat again, and the Quartermaster relaxed and smiled.  He looked younger, almost elfish, when he smiled in such simple and obvious delight.

“The couch is fine,” James gave in with a soft smile that lived mostly in his eyes.

~^~

Of course, the next morning at no later than 7:05 AM, Q came tripping out of his room stuttering something about a technological emergency back at MI6.  Bond just rolled over to press his face against the back of the couch, and agreed to babysit Q’s new cats without even thinking.  He stayed there the rest of the day, and eventually checked that kitchen window that he’d been suspicious of early.  “Queen, you little devil,” he murmured with interwoven annoyance and pride, seeing that the window merely _looked_ like it was closed and sealed – in reality, it stayed closed through gravity alone, and would swing open to any enterprising, pregnant cat.  Bond secretly liked the red-furred feline more because she was smart enough to find the opening.  By the time Q came home again – not late, but promptly at five, bearing Thai take-out and a shy, embarrassed smile – Bond had fixed the window so that no future intruders could come in, no matter how well-meaning and adorable.

“You make a pretty good cat-sitter for an international assassin-spy,” Q commented lightly around a mouthful of noodles.  He managed to look posh even as he sat cross-legged on the floor, as leggy as a stork and as laid-back as a uni-student while he shoveled food with equal speed and vigor.

Keeping up with Q in the food-shoveling department, James paid Q back for the comment by hooking his chop-sticks in Q’s plastic container and sliding it closer across the floor.  “It’s all part of my charm,” he replied back automatically, then moved his elbow as he felt curious whiskers touching it.  Bond and Q were both sitting on the floor in the guest bedroom.  The agent immediately forgot Q’s teasing and smiled down at the mother cat, murmuring, “Well, look who deigned to come down off her throne.”

Q snorted and nearly inhaled his present mouthful, somehow managing to swallow before he started laughing.  Both James and Queen turned identical offended looks the Quartermaster’s way.  “Oh god,” Q chortled, massaging his throat but smiling broadly after one last throat-clearing laugh, “Are you sure I can’t take pictures?”

Fighting to maintain an even look, even as he moved some of the ‘human food’ out of Queen’s curious reach, 007 deadpanned back, “Not even if your life depended on it.”

Q’s eyes were dancing.  “Because you’re not a cat-person, yes?”

“Exactly.”

One of the kittens peeped up loudly from the box, and Queen immediately gave up on her half-hearted food-scrounging and streaked back to the box, letting the argument continue good-naturedly behind her.  If anyone had been nitpicky, they would have seen signs that Bond was not a Quartermaster-person either: gross negligence of tech, refusal to follow directions, frequent snarky comments in Q-branch.  But the agent and Quartermaster got on quite amiably for the rest of the evening at Q’s flat, as if it were a little pocket of un-reality where the regular world held no sway.

~^~

 

  

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to [Lunatic_poet_love](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunatic_poet_love/pseuds/Lunatic_poet_love), who continues to live a busy life but finds time for me anyway <3 This week was especially tricky, as I am presently on a pseudo-enforced-hiatus. I.e., I am presently at the start of a two week family vacation, and therefore **will not be updating regularly** until July. So if anyone is reading [Instinctual](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3625137/chapters/8004345) or [Aces Grey](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5602441/chapters/12908077), I'm interrupting my usual biweekly updating for just the rest of June!
> 
>  
> 
> Picture inspiration for [Queen](http://us.123rf.com/450wm/ca2hill/ca2hill1409/ca2hill140900018/31599652-an-orange-tabby-cat-sitting-outside-beside-a-shed.jpg?ver=6)


End file.
